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It was a tumble in the jungle, a garden-variety-of-Eden adventure racing moment
in the Cabo Blanco nature park on the southern tip of the Nicoya Peninsula in
Costa Rica. Our group: Ian Adamson and Robyn Benincasa, two sterling adventure
racers who do this adventure racing for a living and do it exceptionally well;
Nat Grew, a 60-year-old, very fit cattle rancher, coffee farmer and polo player
from Boston who captained the Costa Rican Raid Gauloises adventure racing team
five years ago; Roman Urbina, one of Costa Rica’s top triathletes and a
professional adventure tour guide; his girlfriend, Meli, a bilingual, slender,
surfer-blonde triathlete and river guide from Santa Barbara; and me, an out-of-shape
multisport junkie.
The Civilized JungleMan
We were on a landmark, pioneering odyssey, a do-it-yourself, week-long fitness
vacation that was more adventure pacing than adventure racing. We called it JungleMan.
The goal was simple: get athletically trashed during the day through activities
like running up the 10,000-foot Turiabla volcano, mountain biking down it,
whitewater rafting the Picuare River, kayaking 20 miles in the Gulf of Nicoya,
running 15 miles along a rocky beach, horseback riding another 15 miles on a beach,
surfing, etc., etc. But unlike real adventure racing McCoys, we would sleep at
night in lodgings, homes, and even a four-star hotel along the way. No sharing of
toothbrushes, or living out of smelly packs, or hobbling around with trashed,
duct-taped feet.
Still, we experienced a glimmer of fear and uncertainty as we bombed and bumbled through
thick jungle undergrowth.
We had left the marked trail an hour ago because Nat had a paranoid-like aversion
to the local ranger whose job (apart from resting cozily in the shade in his hammock)
was ostensibly to keep people out of the park. We followed a streambed uphill that
petered out as all false trails do. The forest grew thicker, the terrain steeper,
the thorn bushes thornier, the day hotter, our nerves tauter. Yet Ian was having
a grand time. He was enjoying being semi-lost.
“Let’s just climb to the tallest hill and we’ll be fine,” he exclaimed in his
calm, Tony Robbins-positive voice laced with an Australian accent. Ian’s also one
of the greatest living adventure racers, a stalwart member of world-champion Team
Eco-Internet.
“We’ll see the ocean,” Ian continued, “and we’ll take it
from there.”
Nary a Tear or Whimper
We were carrying no compasses, little water, and a few energy bars. I saw menace
ahead, as I plodded slowly after the group, the last person in this Costa Rican
conga line. Meli banged her knee on a rock. It started bleeding. Her boyfriend,
Roman, asked, “Why did you do that?” As if it were her fault! Then again, Roman
is one tough multisport hombre who had four days ago run up the volcano wearing
a pair of jeans and not carrying any water. He once ran a 100-kilometer (62-mile)
race in hiking boots. Despite her wound, Meli soldiered on, nary a tear or
whimper.
Nat, who got us lost, had run out of water. He wanted some of mine. I refused on
principle. I enjoyed being stingy.
“Hey, this is what adventure racing is all about,” beamed Robyn. “Imagine
three solid days of this. In British Columbia, the forest was even thicker! The
going was even slower!” Two days before, she had given me an adventure-racing
push on the uphill bike section on the flanks of the Turiabla volcano. I told
her that if she pushed my bike, she’d have to carry me. Which she actually did
for 20 yards, uphill. I weigh 185 pounds. It should be noted that Robyn’s the
number-one ranked judo wrestler in America in her weight division—adventure
racers sport impressive athletic resumes; she was also an NCAA champion in
three-meter springboard diving and a top age-group finisher at the Hawaii
Ironman; she also happens to be a firefighter, so this was good practice
for her.
“Watch Where You Put Your Hands”
As we ascended this lone jungle summit, a mere whorl on a topo map in the
hinterlands of Costa Rica, I expected to see plenty of wildlife. We had flora;
I was waiting for fauna. Nat had even forbidden me to wear my white nylon RailRiders
shirt. “It will attract jaguars,” he admonished. Instead, I wore just a pair
of running shorts, Tarzan-style, like Ian. We did see a snake curled peacefully
on a branch. This park is known for its deadly coral snakes. All the tour books
have warnings about them. Get bit and you’re dead. No exceptions. They’re tiny,
colorful things, no longer than a stern nun’s classroom ruler. (The late Jacques
Cousteau once said, “Ze most prettiest things under de sea are also ze most
dangerous.” The same principle applies to snakes.)
“Watch where you put your hands!” Roman repeated, his JungleMan mantra of the
day. We all obeyed.
When we summitted, Ian paused to take a bearing, using the sun and his shadow as
part of some private trigonometric calculation, then charged off toward the
Pacific, which was two miles away, as the turkey vulture flies. (I did see one
of them.) Our group followed the intrepid pathfinder. But our path was a
long, steep embankment. We pinballed off trees, holding onto breakaway vines to
slow our descent, until we reached a creek bed gurgling with water and unknown
tropical parasites. But thirst is a canny adversary. I put my face in the cool
stream and drank.
It Doesn’t Get Any Better Than This
After another hour of scrambling over boulders and limbo dancing underneath
fallen trees, we reached the beach. We were all safe, though scratched, nicked,
and dirtied—mere JungleMan battle scars.
We had been in the jungle for less than four hours. (Note to Robyn and Ian: You
put yourself through 72 consecutive hours of this? In the dark?) We still had
a five-mile run/hike ahead of us to the Mal Pais surf camp. We would take a
lunch break there and dawdle in the swimming pool. We needed this midday
reprieve before Nat’s vaqueros would get us set up on horses for our four-hour
horseback ride along the deserted beach all the way back to Nat’s ranch, which
borders the Pacific.
As we trotted along the empty beach, with the sky turning salmon-colored in
the twilight, we stopped once for a fresh-coconut break. One of Nat’s neighbors
whacked open a few green coconuts with a machete. It was delicious.
We continued.
The sun dropped lower, a fiery orange ball propped on the flat silvery water.
Robyn experienced an adventure epiphany. “It doesn’t get any better than
this.” She was right.
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